Some people believe that great literature lightly tickles our minds, leaving behind faint memories of words we don’t know the definitions of, from books we just read for class. To these people I say ‘I’m sorry my good sir, but you are wrong.” Great literature meets us when we don’t expect anything, exchanges contact information and leaves a good impression. Literature calls you several days later and wants to meet up for a fancy dinner. You chat over a meal and find that you can relate and you only want more. After a glass of the most expensive wine in the place, Literature invites us up to an apartment for a minute or two. You go up and before you know it, this writing that has drawn you in, is butt naked and copulating you. At first, you’re like ‘Whoa, I don’t know if I should get invested into this. I just started reading”. Then, Literature throws us down on the bed and plays an Al Green record. Before we could think, Literature has entered. You realize something and say “Stop, you need a condom”. Literature just mows ahead, banging you against the wall and rattling your mind. In a matter of minutes you pass through every emotion from confusion, to hate, to love. Literature throws you all around and thrusts deeper into you. Literature begins to sweat and use baseball tactics to persist muttering things like “Second base, two outs”. Time runs miles in seconds, the rooms temperature gets warmer and warmer and Literature stands in front of you and says “Hold on, hold on, uh…..” Then Literature jizzes directly onto your face. - Tim.
“I’m so clever. Sometimes I don’t even understand myself.” – Oscar Wilde
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